If you're like me, something intense happens when you see a fluffy slice of flan (my mom's is the best) topped with vanilla bean ice cream, or a dainty pot of crème brûlée. It's not only your mouth that waters; your soul drools. Inside that first bite lies a seduction of the senses, a taste of heaven's gate, pleasure not only for your taste buds but for your eyes, tongue, the tissue on the insides of your cheeks, your throat. All of you is lusted.
And if it isn't sugar, it might be alcohol or other drugs, overworking, shopping, gambling or pornography. There are many ways we humans seek connection, deep sweetness, a sense of freedom, outside ourselves. Not everyone tries to "externally resource" what can only be found within us, but many of us do.
It's commonly called addiction. And I'm writing letters to it.
I was a kid when I befriended sugar. Through the trauma of my parents' divorce, sugar became my go-to for facing emotional intensity. Chocolate chip cookies were always available and easily sent my tears into some other distant closet.
For at least 20 years I've made attempts to resolve this unhealthy dependency. Unlike my husband, who could eat ice cream every few months, or not, I could eat it ravenously on a daily basis.
And every time, every time, inside this cycle, guilt would follow. It has done so for all the years in my memory, at least since high school, ever since I became aware that my relationship with sugar was strikingly out of balance.
I'm not a lazy person. As someone who is highly self-determined, proactive, and motivated to reach deep within myself into the arms of Love, to heal wounds in life, it's been frustrating and discouraging that all of my efforts have tanked. Again I return to the butter and puff of a divine croissant, or the organic dark chocolate peanut butter cups that mimic my Reese's addiction from childhood. Not every few weeks or so. Habitually. Out of longing. Every-other-daily. And again, ah yes, Hello Guilt, there you are again, oh-so-reliable and anticipated.
One thing that's clear now is that I'll try another 1,000 times to clear this up, if I have to. I will do everything in my capacity -- I will call upon angels -- to not die in this dance. If it's deep sweetness I'm longing for, the kind I feel when I'm entangled in the presence of my daughter, well then I'll find that somewhere other than within a pint of Strauss Mint Chip ice cream.
Something is shifting. I can feel it in my bones. I could write a lot about this whole realm, and for now I'll stick with this: Writing a letter to your addiction is a very powerful thing.
Two mega-powers convene: 1) Writing things down. Scientifically proven to have a significant impact, writing things down is an act of listening to what's showing up and landing it on paper. Giving it a place to reside, outside the constant craze of your addiction thoughts. It frees you up. It loves what is, by putting it on paper. 2) Being in conscious relationship. Relationship is the core of life. Being self-determined, proactive, consciously engaged in your relationship with this thing -- this "addiction" -- you've given your power over to, is very powerful. Writing a letter is an excellent way to stand in conscious relationship.
It just so happens that letter writing is my lifelong art. At this point I've written two "Dear Sugar" letters and throughout this spring, I will be sharing elements of this rich process that feel helpful for others: blog readers, peers, companions, fellow travelers in this sad and beautiful human journey.
But for now, I've been told by some wise friends that it is very helpful to have a template. Not everyone loves writing letters and makes a practice of it, and even those who do can sometimes use the support.
Give it a shot. Pull out some paper and a pen. Here is a template to use for your own Dear Sugar letter. Or Dear Booze, or Etsy, or Maryjane, or Unavailable Men. If there's something you habitually turn to for consolation when you know it tends to leave you feeling guilt or shame, that's the thing.
I notice... (you're speaking up a lot these days, it's clear you have a lot to say, I feel upset by all the stuff you're saying...etc... any observations you have, just noticing...)
I am listening. I hear... (that you think I'm not a good mom/lover/wife/woman/person/friend... that you don't find me to be gifted/honest/loving/deserving/capable/etc...)
I want to honor what you have to say. Yet ultimately you won't be allowed to drive this car. To make decisions. To play a leading role in my life. I simply want you to know you matter and you're being heard. I am open to what you have to share with me. What else do you have to share? (list, list, list...)
What I want for myself is...
Yes- I want more of __________, __________, ____________... and less of ______________.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. I am here to listen until it feels like our conversation is complete. I'll be back. I'll be listening for what else you have to say.
And before I go, I will fill up my cup with some self love.
I acknowledge myself for _____________________________ and
I acknowledge myself for _____________________________ and
I acknowledge myself for _____________________________ ...
From / Love / Sincerely / All For Now / Thanks,
Listen to our featured free recording for May, an interview with Grace Boda on The Geography of Being Open... here.
(And once I re-route from the fact that a leaky water bottle ruined my laptop, I'll post our piece for June!)
Jessica Rios, Founder of Leaning into Light, is a mother, coach, lifelong letter writer, Patreon Creator -- and eternally a fan of Fred Rogers. This deeply personal blog and our free recorded interviews are devoted to one of her greatest passions: illuminating the beauty of the human spirit.